


Free of any Eden we can name

by riversdamsel



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riversdamsel/pseuds/riversdamsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gasping, the Doctor reaches for the diary again, and as soon as his fingers clasp around the leather binding it gives another warm hum.  Almost as if it's saying, 'Finally.  Where have you been?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free of any Eden we can name

**Author's Note:**

> Oookkkaayyyy
> 
> So I was given the prompt 'knighthood,' to work with, and somehow this was the result. Don't ask how, I don't even know okay. But I hope you like it???? Gah what even is this *drowns*
> 
> Work title from the poem "You, Therefore," by Reginald Shepard
> 
> Quotes in between sections are taken from the Day of the Doctor

 

 

_"Of course I dream.  Everybody dreams."_

XxX

It's funny.  Not in the sort of giddy humor way, but in a way that turns a smile bitter or a soul dark.  That is to say, it is not funny at all.  Actually, it's quite the opposite.

 

So it's funny, in that humorless way, that despite all of his best attempts and successes at saving the universe, that the universe never seems to want to return the favor.  In fact, the universe seems to revel in his suffering- and suffering he is.

 

The Doctor has lost many things before, many people, many  _places_.  Hell, he has even lost his  _home planet_ , and yet nothing compares to the feeling of loss he is currently suffering.  His wife is  _gone_ , and somehow this loss has wounded him more than any other.

 

Maybe that has to do with the way he lost her.  Immediately.  Before he could even regard her with anything other than fear and resentment.  And then slowly.  Every smile, every touch, every kiss came with a number until the count was brought to zero and she was snatched so suddenly all over again from an event that he had already lived.

 

What came after was a special sort of torture that was done mostly by his own hand.  His wife took to haunting him.  He pretended not to notice.

 

But now, with Trenzalore behind him, the loss he has been enduring since the first time he met her and she burned in that chair on that shadow eaten planet is finally beginning to truly settle.  The time between then and now was filled with centuries of running, her hand clasped tightly in his, but that time he had with her was no where near long enough to satisfy him.  But then again, how much time could have ever been enough?  Only eternity would have done.

 

For a short while she was his.  Now she's gone.

 

The TARDIS gives a sudden jolt, aggressive enough to not only temporarily pull him from his brooding, but to also cause him to cling to the railing for balance.  His ship begins to pilot herself and the Doctor frowns- it seems like she doesn't agree with his plan to stay in the vortex and and sulk himself into his next regeneration.  

 

When she lands, the TARDIS pushes at the Doctor's mind insistently, prompting him to sigh apologetically as he shakes his head.  "I'm sorry, Old Girl.  No adventures today, yeah?"

 

His ship hums, a disapproving sound that makes it sound as if she's saying, ' _Just go outside, you great idiot.'_  


Again, the Doctor shakes his head in refusal and runs his hand over the console in what is meant to be a soothing manner.  "I can't.  Not today."

 

This time when his ship gives a violent jolt it's enough to send him stumbling down the stairs and out the open doors, landing outside on his back with an  _oomph_.  He winces as the TARDIS doors slam decisively shut.  Heaving out a sigh, the Doctor rubs at his newly scraped elbow but doesn't bother moving from his position on the ground.  Instead, he blinks dazedly up at the sky before him, distantly wondering how long it has been since he has stepped foot outside of his ship.  Sunlight would probably do him a bit of good.

 

Except it's not sun.  Well, there is a haze of dusky light as the sun settles, but the object hanging in the sky above him is  _not_  a sun.  It's a moon.  And not just  _any_  moon, the Dr. Moon.

 

With a startled gasp, the Doctor pushes himself up from the ground and rattles the locked doors of the TARDIS, his hearts suddenly in his throat.  

 

"You know I can't be here," he hisses.  

 

In return, the TARDIS only nudges gently at his mind and hums reassuringly.  Sighing in defeat, the Doctor gives up on the doors and presses his forehead against the blue panels, shutting his eyes tightly as he attempts to block out the smell of books.  It's not a smell he's been able to stomach for a long time.

 

The TARDIS gives another hum, this time more insistent, as if trying to convey he doesn't have much time.  With his fingers still clenched tightly around the door handles, the Doctor breathes out shakily and slowly risks a glance over his shoulder.  His fingers uncurl as he faintly turns to face the view before him, his knees feeling decidedly weak.

 

It's been centuries but he remembers this exact spot.  Behind him is a room with mahogany desks and a handful of less than helpful nodes.  To either side of him stand tall, white block pillars, and the concrete beneath his feet descends in stairs to a large balcony area that gives a perfect view of the almighty Library.

 

His hearts constrict and the Doctor blinks rapidly to dispel the sudden burning behind his eyes.  This is his wife's grave.  No shoddy tombstone on Trenzalore could ever change that.  The silence that pervades the air is heavy and more haunting than any dark cemetery could ever hope to be.

 

As he takes a step forward, his eyes scan the view that lays beyond the balcony, and he quickly concludes that the twenty-four hours he asked from the Vashta Nerada must be up.  Everything is covered in shadow, only the outline of the buildings are distinguishable.  His stomach churns at the sight and at the memory of negotiating with the vicious creatures that had a hand in his wife's death.  The Doctor grits his teeth, irrationally resenting the deal he made.  He should have burned this planet to the ground.

 

Pulling his eyes from the shadow-covered scenery, the Doctor's breath hitches as he focuses on the old, blue book and the sonic screwdriver that rests atop the balcony railing. The diary is just as worn and well-loved as he remembers, the spine cracked from being overly full with the best story ever lived.   It lays there almost patiently, as if it has been waiting for him to return.

 

The TARDIS gives a persistent hum, and just before the Doctor finally loses what little patience he has left and begins to demand answers from his ship, he notices the shadows creeping up from the other side of the balcony and slowly inching toward the railing.  His hearts stall.  They're going for the diary.

 

Sudden panic drives him forward, his legs carrying him swiftly down the stairs and forward until his fingers curl possessively over the worn diary and the sonic that accompanies it.  Without waiting for the shadows to engulf the railing and continue their journey forward, the Doctor turns promptly on his heels, takes the steps two at a time, and finds himself safely behind the TARDIS doors in only a few long strides.

 

His ship pilots them into the vortex as the Doctor slumps against the doors and slides to the floor, his gaze locked on the diary in his hands.  He stares at it for so long, his mind devoid of thought, that for a moment he is afraid that he's going to burn a hole right through it.  So when it hums suddenly, the Doctor yelps and immediately releases it.  The diary lands on the floor next to him with a small  _thud_ , and the Doctor continues to stare at it as he tires to get his sudden rapid breathing under control.

 

It  _hummed_.  And while that's a troubling thought all on it's own, it wasn't just a hum that he could feel with his hands, but it was a hum that he could feel in his  _mind_.  He begins to wonder just how truly addled he is becoming in his old age when the TARDIS gives an annoyed whir and  _oh_.  Gasping, the Doctor reaches for the diary again, and as soon as his fingers clasp around the leather binding it gives another warm hum.  Almost as if it's saying, ' _Finally.  Where have you been?'_  


The Doctor stares at the diary in shock.  It's  _sentient_.  

 

This time when the diary hums, a bit more impatiently now, his ship hums right along with it.  In fact, they sound completely identical.  

 

Oh.   _Oh_.  

 

This diary-  _River's diary_ \- that looks like his TARDIS and is bigger on the inside like his TARDIS, _is his TARDIS._   Well, not completely so, more like an extension, an external link.  For the umpteenth time that day, his hearts seem to freeze in his chest.  The Doctor stares unwaveringly at the little blue book, scarcely able to breathe as he clutches it in his hands like he would a lifeline.

 

This diary has never been just a diary, the keeper of their timelines.  This diary is his link to his wife.

 

The Doctor exhales shakily.

 

The one positive thing about saving River's conscious to the Library's hard drive is that she can fill her afterlife with countless adventures from every book ever written.  Including her own diary, which he knows without a doubt that she must have with her even in death.  With the physical copy of that very same diary now held preciously in his hands, he can write her any story he wishes.  But more than that, with the TARDIS being the link between them, he will be able to join her.

 

With his hearts bursting with overwhelming gratitude toward his ship, the Doctor gingerly thumbs through the fragile pages of the diary, their flutter creating a whisper that resonates in his chest like hope.  When the diary falls open on his lap to a blank page, the Doctor fishes a pen out of the inside pocket of his tweed with trembling fingers and a smile.

 

Perhaps the universe has given him reprieve after all.

 

XxX

 

_"But what do you dream about?"_

XxX

A picnic.  

 

That's it.  Those two words is all he writes before he falls onto his bed that used to be  _theirs_ , the diary still clutched tightly in his hands as he closes his eyes.  The TARDIS gives a low, reassuring hum and then quite suddenly he can't feel his ship at all.  There is no distant sound of the time rotor or soft rumbling of the engines that can always be heard in the walls or felt through the floor.  Instead he hears...birds.  Birds chirping happily and the light rustle of what must be leaves in a tree.

 

When he opens his eyes he finds himself sitting on a typical checkered picnic blanket under a tree that must be at least centuries old.  Around him is waist high stalks of wheat the color of the sky on Earth, and just ahead of him it looks as if the ground suddenly plummets into a cliffside that overlooks a sparkling ocean whose variety of soft colors mix together in a way that is reminiscent of a sunrise.  But he could care less about the sights around him, the woman sitting before him more breathtaking than any scenery could ever possibly manage.

 

His wife sits only inches from him, clothed in a blinding white dress and her curls being gently ruffled by the light breeze.  The Doctor can only stare at her, his hands shaking and his hearts beating overtime as he drinks her in for the first time in longer than he ever wants to think about.

 

River smiles brightly, her green eyes bright with tears.  "Hello sweetie."

 

XxX

 

_"The same thing everybody dreams about."_

XxX

 

"You know, last time, when you wrote us into a lake of custard I honestly thought your brain would not be able to write us into anything worse."  River tosses her curls over her shoulder and shoots him a glare.  "Apparently I was wrong."

 

Despite their current situation, the Doctor gives off a giggle, pointing at his wife in glee.  "Did you,  _River Song_ , just admit to being  _wrong_?"

 

She snarls at him.  Perhaps this wasn't the best time to joke.

 

"Honestly, River, Lake Custard was plenty of fun."

 

For a moment, her mouth drops open before she quickly snaps it shut to give him another withering glare.  "The creature that resided there tried to  _eat us_!"

 

"Not on purpose!  I'm certain he only mistook us for fish fingers."

 

River opens her mouth to no doubt continue arguing with him, but is interrupted by the approach of a man clothed in finery and flanked by two men clad in leather armor.

 

"At last!"  The man booms, his arms open wide in greeting.  "Our knight has arrived!"

 

The Doctor preens, running a gloved hand over the chainmail that armors his chest.  It's no tweed, and actually it's terribly heavy, but this is an opportunity he could not resist.  And if River was to be let on to the truth of his discomfort he would never hear the end of it.  So instead of showing any signs of difficulty, the Doctor beams and gives a flourishing bow to the King.  "At your service, Your Majesty."

 

"Not that we had much say in the matter," River grumbles, snatching her arm from the grip of one of the guards who guided them here.

 

The King raises his brow in amusement before grinning at the Doctor.  "Feisty maiden you have here, good knight.  Perhaps she is fitting of the title you carry."

 

Sensing his wife's high level of irritation, the Doctor gives an uneasy laugh and quickly answers,  "Of that I have no doubt."

 

The King refocuses on River and gives a charming smile.  "Ah but what a sin it would be to cover such finery in garish armor."

 

The Doctor watches River's eyes narrow and her fingers twitch, as if itching to slap the man in front of her.  Quickly, he inserts himself between his wife and the King with an anxious giggle.  "So your guards mentioned a dragon?"

 

The King's face immediately turns grim and he nods somberly.  "The beast has been ravaging the eastern most portion of my kingdom.  I have prepared a ship for you."

 

The Doctor frowns in confusion.  "A ship?"

 

The King raises a brow, as if the answer is obvious.  "For you to take to the East.  To slay the dragon.  You leave immediately."

 

Before the Doctor can get out protest, the King signals to the men behind them.  "Good luck on your mission, fair knight.  I pray you return in one piece."  And with that, he and River are urged from the King's presence, the Doctor's mind reeling.

 

"Not up for slaying any dragons, Doctor?"  The Doctor looks at his wife to find her watching him with a completely unimpressed expression written across her face.

 

"I'm not going to  _slay_  anything!"

 

"Well perhaps you shouldn't have written yourself as a knight, sweetie."

 

He glares at her, and suddenly River's annoyance turns into exasperated fondness.  "If I remember correctly, you once  told me you could speak Dragon."

 

The Doctor grins suddenly, his hands coming up to pull at the lapels at his jacket only to be met with the cold mesh of the chainmail.  "I absolutely  _can_  speak Dragon.  Perhaps he will be willing to negotiate."  He leans toward her and lovingly taps her on the nose, pleased as he watches her attempt to repress a smile.  "Excellent idea, wife."

 

River gives an affectionate roll of her eyes before suddenly pinning him with a hard look, as if she just remembered she had something to scold him about.  "Well the next time you write me as a  _maiden_  I will hand you to the dragon myself without any help whatsoever."

 

The Doctor pouts at her.  "You don't want to be my maiden, River?"

 

She glares.  "I hate you."

 

Her attention is diverted as they approach the rather massive ship meant to carry them across the sea.  The Doctor watches as her eyes light up in excitement for the adventure, and he smiles as he concludes that no, she really doesn't.

 

XxX

_"I dream about where I'm going."_

XxX

 

He could write about tree houses.  As in houses built literally inside of trees.  Or maybe he could write them skating on the rings of Saturn.  Or take her dancing in the grand ballroom of the Versailles Palace- though that should already be an entry in her diary.  Twice.

 

Or maybe he could place them in the midst of an epic pirate battle.  That could be fun.   _Space_  pirates would be even better.  He could probably even get by with wearing a hat.

 

Yes, that's what- " _Doctor!"_   Fingers snapping in his face accompany the loud, significantly annoyed exclamation of his name, jolting him from his planning.

 

Hands on her hips, Clara narrows her big eyes at him and  _oh_  he knows what that means.  He's in trouble.

 

"You've not been listening to a word I've said.  And I only just walked in!"

 

Grimacing in mild contrition, the Doctor guiltily fidgets with the controls at the console before attempting a slightly doleful expression.

 

She sighs.  "Don't give me those big eyes.  What has you so distracted?"

 

Immediately perking up, he tugs at the lapels of his jacket and announces, "I've just made plans with Professor Song to engage in a rather eventful pirate battle.   _In space_.  After our adventure, of course."  Swinging the scanner around, the Doctor waggles his fingers over the keyboard in an anticipatory manner and gives his companion a smile.  "So where to?"

 

Giving a put-upon sigh, Clara reaches over and flicks off the scanner.  "No adventure today, Doctor.  If you had been listening to me when I walked in you would know that."

 

"What do you mean 'no adventure'?!  It's Wednesday!"

 

"Actually it's Friday and  _I_  have a  _date_.  Go play pirates with your wife- I'll see you on actual Wednesday."  Before he can even make a show of protesting, Clara is out the TARDIS doors with a waggle of her fingers.

 

For only a moment he stands there in the silence of the TARDIS before all but bolting down the corridor to his room, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of the worn diary resting atop the bed.  His wife is waiting for him.

 

After spending a few minutes scratching down a few details into the diary, the Doctor situates himself comfortably and closes his eyes.  It's as easy as dreaming, and occasionally he entertains the terrifying thought that these precious adventures with his wife is exactly just that, a dream.  But then he opens his eyes and he's in the belly of a ship and River stands before him with a smile and so much love in her eyes that he  _knows_  it is real.  No amount of imagination could have ever perfectly reproduced the amount of love his wife gives to him so freely.

 

"Hello, dear," the Doctor greets with a smile, pulling her into him with one hand and cupping her face with the other as he bestows her with a lingering kiss.  The edges of her lips curl into a smile, immediately causing a warmth to unfurl in his chest that he finds to be missing when he wakes.

 

"What have you got for me this time, sweetie?"  River breathes as he takes a half-step back, the content little sigh that accompanies her words conveying that she doesn't really give a toss about whatever adventure lies ahead.  His bad girl is always one for danger and threatening situations, but the softness in her eyes tells him that those things always come second to him.

 

His hearts swell in his chest as he presses a kiss to the back of her hand before twirling her before him, openly appreciating the tight leather trousers and corset top that this fictional world has clothed her in.  "Space pirate battle," he answers, taking in the smirk gracing her face that informs him that she is definitely aware that his eyes were trained on her arse a bit longer than he would care to admit aloud.

 

At his words, River's face lights up in glee.  "Excellent."

 

Later, when they find themselves in the heat of battle, the first thing she shoots is his hat.

 

XxX

 

_"Home..."_

XxX

 

And that's how it goes.  During the day he adventures through the universe, and afterward he retires to his room and writes.  Sometimes it's intergalactic carnivals, and other times it's just him, his wife, and a bed.  Finally, his nights are hers again.

 

At least, that's how it goes until he arrives on Christmas.

 

Not Christmas the holiday, Christmas the town.  He keeps River's diary stored safely in the bigger-on-the-inside pocket of his purple overcoat, but he quickly finds out that without the TARDIS present, the diary is nothing more than a dusty old book.

 

Regardless, he writes every night and sleeps with it tucked beneath his pillow.  But every morning he wakes to find that his sleep was dreamless.

 

And just like that, he loses his wife all over again.

 

Bitterness creeps into his hearts and he thinks that with his track record, he doubts she will be very surprised by his disappearance.

 

\---

 

Three hundred years and a new face later and his TARDIS is returned to him.  Or more accurately, he is returned to his TARDIS.

 

Along with the bow tie, he loses every other article of clothing his last self chose.  When the overly-dramatic purple monstrosity hits the floor, it makes a heavier thud than he expects.  His memory is slow going at coming back this time around, but the second he remembers the worn book held within that overcoat, his hearts plummet to the floor.

 

With a shaking hand, the Doctor pulls the diary from the coat.  At his touch, it gives an immediate, insistent hum that nearly causes him to drop it.  After three centuries of it remaining silent, he was beginning to think that perhaps it had all been nothing more than a dream after all.

 

His lips purse into thin, grim line, and before he can convince himself otherwise, he shelves the book next to his copy of the  _Time Traveler's Wife_  and refuses to give it a second glance.

 

Later, when Clara inquires after his latest nightly escapade, he flinches and simply answers, "This face doesn't have a wife."

 

\---

 

If not anything else, this him is stubborn to a fault.  And also rather forgetful.

 

On the rare occasion that he allows himself to close his eyes and think of her, he forgets that her love for him wasn't bound to a particular incarnation, but to the soul and hearts that remain the same regardless of the face.  So he convinces himself that this him isn't the one she needs.

 

He forgets that her parents weren't just Amy and Rory, his glorious Ponds, but the girl who waited and the last centurion.  So he convinces himself that it's been too long for him to return- by now she has probably forgotten all about him.

 

At least, that's what he tells himself every time he passes by the diary and it gives a desperate, pleading hum.  But it's not really forgetfulness at all, it's fear.

 

Fear is what keeps him from pulling that impossible blue book from the shelf and returning to his wife.  Well, fear and selfishness.  Because what happens the next time he's stranded without his TARDIS?  How many times is his expected to endure losing the one who ever really truly mattered?  And even then, say he does return.  How long can he go before this self-loathing eats him alive?  River is imprisoned within the data core of the library- no amount of whimsical writing will ever change that.  The last thing River Song should ever be is caged, and yet he keeps her there because his selfish nature won't allow him to let her go.

 

So he tromps about the universe and carries that bitterness in the deepest pits of his hearts.  That is, until he undergoes a rather rude awakening and remembers Donna and the man on Pompeii who wore this bony face long before the Doctor ever did.

  
_He is the Doctor and he saves people_.

 

But not just people, _his wife_.  He cansave River.  Actually, properly  _save_  her.

 

After nearly a thousand years, the Doctor reaches for the diary with a shaking hand and grips a pen in trembling fingers.  He isn't exactly sure  _how_  he is going to save her, but for now, he figures he can sleep on it.  

 

XxX

 

_"...the long way around."_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
